


Inferno

by hallyu1



Series: The Seekers [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Fantasy, High Fantasy, Magic, Original Fiction, Other, Swords, Swords & Sorcery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26305204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hallyu1/pseuds/hallyu1
Summary: Alastair Seiver is completely incapable of using magic—or so he thinks. But when he comes across an ancient ring, something deep inside him awakens. And with that, he becomes connected to a long-forgotten prophecy about the creation of the world. The night his school—Rokerth Academy—is attacked, he learns that he is a target of dark forces from the nearby kingdom of Tenebrae, which thrusts Alastair from his uneventful life into one wrought with danger. With the help of his friends, he must outrun and outwit these enemies until he is strong enough to fight them, all while discovering that nearly nothing about his life is as it seemed.
Series: The Seekers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1911262





	1. Prologue

He wished they had sent someone else to the witch’s hovel. Anyone else. The soldiers stationed in the outpost at the edge of the wood avoided Durak Hollow. There was once a little village not far from the forest’s edge, but it was abandoned. The outpost was now the only settlement of any kind for miles. Hugging the southern flank of the Carim Mountains, the woodland was dense and dark. Though the noonday sun was high, hardly any light penetrated the thick canopy. It had once been a beautiful forest, flourishing and full of life. But decades ago, a sickness had fallen upon the wood. It wasn’t natural—like dark magic had seeped into the very roots of the trees, twisting and draining the life out of the forest. The atmosphere was oppressive, suffocating. Even the animals had fled, leaving behind an eerie stillness. Few dared to enter, leaving the once heavily used trail to be reclaimed by nature. And those poor souls who _did_ brave the woods, never returned.

The young soldier shuddered as he trekked along the path. It was overgrown, strewn with dead leaves and fallen branches. There were stories about these woods, tales of monsters lurking in the shadows. It was unnaturally quiet, as if the earth itself were swallowing all sound. Despite the silence, there was a whispering in his ear—a soft mutter, the words indiscernible. He glanced over his shoulder, but no one was there. He was alone.

Climbing over a downed tree that cut across the path, chills crept up his spine. There wasn’t a soul for miles. He was totally isolated. If it hadn’t been for his commander’s direct orders, he would never have dreamed of entering these forsaken woods. After all, the commander’s orders came straight from the emperor himself. The young soldier kept his eyes on the shadows amidst the sea of trees, one hand on the hilt of his sword, and the voice still murmuring in his ear.

Through the gap in the trees, he glimpsed the outline of a dilapidated shack. Like the path, the old house had been reclaimed by the forest. It was as if it had become part of the trees themselves. What was left of the roof sagged, branches protruding from the splintered wood of the walls. The trunk of the tree had grown around the hovel, expanding to encompass the structure, effectively swallowing it. There were narrow gaps in the wood where windows should have been. As a cold wind whispered through the trees, he could have sworn he heard more voices. He strained to listen, but the noise was nothing more than a sigh. If it _were_ voices, he could not decipher the words.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” a raspy female voice said from behind him.

He wheeled around, yanking his sword free from its sheath. A figure watched him from the shadow of the trees. The witch’s thin frame was cloaked in thick animal pelts. Drawn over her head like a hood was the skinned head of a wolf. She was gaunt, her sallow skin stretched taut over her bony body. The woman watched him closely, sunken red eyes gleaming from beneath the heavy pelts. She shuffled toward him, amulets of bone clacking together as she moved.

His grip tightened on the sword. His instincts urged him to turn and run, but he remained rooted to the spot. “Orders from the top, Madam Sorceress,” he managed, his voice cracking slightly

“My Lord Drakar sent you?”

He nodded.

She sidled past him, ambling toward the hovel. The old witch didn’t seem to care about his presence at all. Though she didn’t appear to wish him harm, something deep inside told him she couldn’t be trusted. She was a dark sorceress, drawing her power from ancient and forbidden magic. She opened the door, its rotting wood barely hanging onto the frame. She beckoned him to come with her. Hesitantly, he followed. The voices in the wind whispered to him, as if they were warning him.

“His Majesty is growing impatient,” he said, ducking through the sagging doorway. “He is demanding results. Have you located any of the Twelve?”

“It is not an easy task,” she said, in her raspy voice. “To find twelve people in this vast world is like trying to find individual grains of sand in the desert. To have all twelve of the elements of life reincarnated in the same lifetime…I know all too well why Lord Drakar is so eager to find them.”

The inside of her home was just as foreboding as the outside. It was everything the young soldier imagined a sorceress’s home to be. It consisted of a single room, crowded into the trunk of the twisted tree. What little furniture she possessed was old and rotting. The blankets draped over her meager bed were stained and fraying at the edges. Jars and bottles filled with strange herbs and ingredients were shoved into crudely made shelves. Clusters of dried meats and herbs hung from the eaves, dangling so low he had to duck around them. Masks and strange ritualistic objects littered the room. A cauldron stood in the center of the dwelling, the low-burning flames of the fire beneath it casting little light in the grimy house. A foul smell wafted from the vessel.

“I will find them soon enough.” She approached the bubbling vat and peered at the dark liquid brewing inside.

The faint, unearthly howl of an unknown creature echoed through the forest. The sound made the soldier jump. He glanced nervously at the gaps in the walls, hoping he would glimpse the animal that had made the noise. But all he could see were shadows. “What was that?”

“One of my children,” she said.

“Stop talking cryptically, witch!” he shouted. The soldier quickly clapped his hand over his mouth. To call a dark sorceress a witch was dangerous, especially in her own home. The moment the word left his lips, he knew he would be punished.

She lowered her hood, revealing a mess of tangled hair, the tips of wolf-like ears peeking out from behind her wild mane. The young man recoiled at the sight.

“A witch, am I?” She approached him slowly. “Is that what you call me?”

“F-forgive me, Madam Sorceress,” he stammered. “I meant no offense.”

The woman smiled, sharp canine teeth peeking out from behind her cracked lips. She took a step closer. “I was once a high priestess of the Great Mother. But I have since found more powerful magic even the blessed Mother could not provide to her devout children.” She drew back, sensing the fear and unease from the young man. “It doesn’t matter what you call me. Such names matter little to me.”

The same chilling howl rang out from the darkness of the trees—this time much closer. He could hear a strange chuffing from just outside the house. The sickening smell of rotting flesh wafted through the dwelling, making his stomach churn. He covered his mouth, trying to keep himself from heaving. A hulking shadow skulked past the window, making its way to the front of the home. In the doorway loomed a monster, the likes of which the soldier had never seen before. It was a gangly creature covered in greasy black fur. Its limbs were lanky and it sidled over in an awkward sideways gait. What should have been a normal animal face was instead a wolf skull. Red eyes, like the witch’s, glowed from the hollow sockets.

The soldier shrank back against the wall as the creature slunk around the cauldron toward the sorceress. She muttered something, cooing to it as though it were a harmless dog. She spoke in a language he didn’t understand.

“ _Wai un bursa, un kala?_ ” she said tenderly.

The beast chuffed and grunted. The witch froze, a look of shock on her haggard old face.

“What is it?” the soldier croaked.

The beast made an odd grunting sound. The woman hissed, recoiling suddenly. She clambered to one of the dusty shelves, rummaging through the bottles. She snatched one and uncorked it. When she did so, the whispering voices grew louder. There was the faint sound of someone crying.

“What’s going on?”

“Solheim,” she hissed, her red eyes gleaming as she spoke. She poured a strange liquid into the bubbling vat, instantly silencing the crying voices. The concoction glowed faintly before becoming placid. The surface shimmered and a shadowy figure appeared on its surface. The soldier could tell it was a boy—a young man, perhaps—but the details were hazy. The image wavered for a second before fading completely.

The witch cursed loudly. “There is powerful magic blocking my scrying! May their soul be damned!”

“I thought your magic was stronger than any other?”

She rounded on him, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “There is much you don’t know. There are few magics more powerful than my own. But even my powers cannot do _everything_.”

He gulped. “I’m not sure I understand….”

“Your commander told you nothing of my magic before he sent you here, did he?”

The soldier’s hand trembled as he gripped the hilt of his sword. “No.”

The creature standing beside the sorceress whined softly, saliva dripping from its skinless jaws. It turned to the woman, sunken eyes watching her closely. The soldier tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Though he wanted to turn and run, the beast’s hungry gaze as it looked from its master back to him kept him frozen.

She reached out her bony hand toward him and, with a single finger, stroked the bottom of the soldier’s chin. “If one wishes to attain power, something of equal value must be given. And for _my_ magic, nothing is more valuable than the life of another.”

The soldier turned on his heel, but the beast leaped over the cauldron, blocking his path. The creature growled, its jaws parting slightly as it padded closer. He drew his sword, but the monster swatted it aside as if it were a toy. The man’s breathing hitched, scanning the room for another exit. He heard the witch cackle behind him.

“Be a dear and lend me your soul,” she whispered in his ear.

The monster pounced. Fangs ripped through his jugular. His scream caught in his throat, drowned out by the blood filling his lungs. Sharp claws sunk deep into his chest, the creature shredding the soldier’s skin from his bones. He could hear the voices clearly now—the anguished cries of those the witch had killed. _Murderer! Your soul be damned, witch,_ they shrieked. Their wails rang loud in his ears, mourning for him. His voice would soon join theirs. The woman grinned as if she enjoyed the sound of teeth tearing through flesh. A strange whiteness fringed his vision and all at once, there was nothing.

**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

Though his company was fleeting, the witch always enjoyed when they sent messengers. It gave her fresh ingredients for her spells. Usually His Majesty and his commanders sent disposable older servants. It was rare that she enjoyed the essence of such a young life. A white mist rose from the dying soldier’s mouth—his life force. His soul. It spiraled toward her. The sorceress reached out, letting the strange substance curl around her bony fingers. She inhaled deeply, taking the life into herself. She always liked the flavor fear added to a person’s soul. As she consumed his life force, her sallow skin fleshed out, filling in her skeletal frame. Her tangled mane was revitalized, the wiry strands now plump and soft. Nothing worked better than a fresh soul to make her young and beautiful.

“ _Take your meal outside if you wish to play with him. I don’t want you getting blood everywhere._ ”

The creature scooped the body up in its jaws and lumbered out the door. The sorceress gazed at her reflection in the cauldron. Plump lips, soft skin, and bright eyes as red as rubies. She smiled, running her slender fingers through her soft, dark curls.

“Those fools can’t do anything right.” Her voice was silky, not at all like an old woman’s. “Perhaps I had better pay them a visit myself.”


	2. Chapter 1

This must be hell.

The ground beneath his feet was barren. Wildfire spread along the edge of the mountains, trapping Alastair in the valley, the peaks hidden beneath a cloud of thick smoke. What was left of a village had been decimated, tongues of flame engulfing the skeletal frames of houses. Dry, dead grass crunched beneath his boots as he ran. He could hardly see the light of the sun through the smog. The entire valley was nothing but the smoldering ruins of a once quiet town surrounded by forest. It felt familiar yet entirely foreign. As he ran through the burning village, his foot caught on something unseen. Alastair landed hard, knocking the wind from his lungs. He turned to see what he had tripped over, only to find a woman with long brown hair, blood running down the side of her head. She was holding a bundle of cloth. When she looked at him, a sudden pang of grief and fear jolted through him.

The woman grasped the hem of Alastair’s trousers, her hand shaking. She opened her mouth to speak, but only managed a garbled moan. Her amber eyes pleaded silently. The woman held out the bundle toward him and as the corner of the fabric fell away, Alastair recoiled at the sight. It was a baby shrouded in flames. , scuttling back as fast as he could. The rush of wings above him dragged his attention from the horrifying sight. A winged figure—a young man with white hair—swooped down from the blackening sky. The stranger reached for him. Alastair raised his arms defensively, closing his eyes as he readied for the crash.

When the impact never came, he opened his eyes slowly. The woman and the infant were gone, along with the village, though the fire remained. Instead, towering high above him was an enormous tree, with wide branches that stretched toward the mountains. The old, knobby boughs twisted this way and that, its thick roots wound deep into the earth. The image of the thick, gnarled trunk wavered in the haze. Withered leaves clung desperately to the thin twigs. The tree was dying.

An unsettling sense of danger stole over him. It sent shivers up his spine. He scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering as he fled. No matter where he looked, there was fire. Alastair’s breath came in sharp, labored gasps. The smoke stung his eyes, burned his lungs.

_Alastair_ , an old, tired voice whispered.

The smoke grew thicker. A stream of flames suddenly lashed out, cutting him off. Alastair skidded to a stop. He shielded his eyes against the blaze.

_Alastair_. This time the voice held a sinister edge.

The dying tree loomed above him. The blackened skeletal remains of leaves fluttered down around him, red embers still clinging to them.

_Alastair!_ the same voice screamed.

He spun around, chest heaving. Red eyes pierced through the glaring wildfire. A figure leapt from the flames, reaching out to snatch him—the coarse, contorted face of someone screaming.

Alastair crossed his arms over his face, shielding himself from his attacker. His eyes snapped open, an unearthly scream erupting from him. But instead of fire, all he saw was a dark room. He was no longer staring up at a dying tree surrounded by flames, just the bare ceiling of his room. With shaking hands, Alastair covered his face. He was drenched in sweat, his clothes clinging to his body. His chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing.

_Just a dream_ …he thought. _It was just a dream_ ….

The door banged open, jolting Alastair bolt upright. His friend Kylar stood in the doorway, shadowed against the light that flooded in from the hallway. His ash-blond hair was sticking up at odd angles, having leapt out of bed in a hurry. Kylar’s chest was heaving almost as heavily as Alastair’s.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Kylar shouted. “What happened?”

Alastair hunched forward. “Spirits, not again…”

“It sounded like someone was in here murdering you!”

“It felt like someone _was_ murdering me.” He lifted his head. “Sorry…”

Kylar sighed. “They’re getting worse, aren’t they?”

Alastair remained silent, staring at his hands in his lap. The night terrors weren’t new, but he didn’t usually wake up screaming.

“You need to talk to a doctor about that or something,” Kylar said, his hand on the doorknob. “It’s been two months already.”

“I know.”

Kylar shook his head, muttering something under his breath. He closed the door, casting the room once more into darkness. As Alastair sat on his bed, he listened to the sounds of the night—the screech of cicadas, the tap of branches on his window with each strong breeze. He couldn’t settle the shaking in his hands. It was like something had disturbed him down to his core. Some primordial fear had awoken inside him, one that would not be quieted.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Out of hundreds of classmates, Alastair was the only one who couldn’t perform even the easiest enchantments. Although nearly anyone possessed the ability to perform simple spells, true mage craft was only taught to members of the aristocracy in places like Rokerth Academy, which was among the most prestigious schools in the kingdom of Solheim. Only the best of the best attended the boarding school to study under the finest teachers money could afford. The whole school was comprised of children from the aristocracy, and students with exceptional aptitude.

The campus reflected its patrons’ prestige. It was built on a large plateau in the Carim Mountains. The grounds had been cultivated to be spacious and lush—green lawns without a single weed. Each building looked like an individual mansion with high windows and polished stone, hardly resembling the powerful bastion it once had been. Tall spires rose from the four corners of the campus, the tops of which were just tall enough to see above the mountain peaks. Narrow slits had been built into the watchtowers for archers, but the towers had since been renovated to accommodate classes for astronomy and an aviary for messenger birds. Historically, the Academy had been a stronghold built in the First Age, used both as a garrison as well as an observatory to guard the border in times of trouble. It was now a shadow of its former self. Young minds were cultivated at Rokerth to become the next generation of leaders, doctors, and aristocrats, learning everything from magic to politics.

Magic came easily to everyone else, but for Alastair, it was like trying to grab hold of smoke—though he could feel it, he could not grasp it. Classes that dealt with magic were the ones he hated the most.

The lecture hall was crowded with students in their crisp, clean uniforms. Interspersed among them were a few Johte’ir students, most of whom were children of clan leaders. Johte’ir were rarely seen in prestigious academies like Rokerth and were often looked down upon by the aristocracy, though the sentiment was not shared by the general populace. For hundreds of years, humans and Johte’ir didn’t intermingle much in politics and academia. But slowly, some of the less isolated clans had decided to open trade with human towns. These days, it was not uncommon to see Johte’ir and humans living together in the larger cities. They looked human except for their animal features—tails and ears that were canine or feline in nature.

The professor’s desk and chalkboard were down below, at the bottom of the tiered seating. Alastair sat high up at the back of the classroom, next to Caelyn, a girl with fair skin and platinum blonde hair. She wore the same uniform as the other girls: a royal blue blazer with silver embellishments and a long white skirt. Professor Knight stood at the front of the class, wand in hand. He was a Drynar, standing at only three-and-a-half feet tall with a round, childlike face. He demonstrated the correct tone and inflection for a spell to summon small objects. An apple sat on the tables in front of each student so they could practice the incantation. Wands in hand, the students became a murmur of voices all muttering the same spell.

Although magic could be performed without the aid of wands, they were used as a conduit for magic power. No two wands were the same, each personalized to the liking of its user. Some were simple and made of wood while others were adorned with gemstones or filigreed with gold or silver. Many students had wands crafted specifically for them while others possessed family heirlooms—wands that had been emblazoned with their family crest or had the names of generations of owners intricately carved into the handle. Alastair’s was plain, made of a smooth and lightweight wood.

“ _Adeat,_ ” he repeated, mimicking Professor Knight’s pronunciation. But even with a wand focusing his magic, his apple refused to budge. 

“This is a waste of time,” he grumbled, slouching in his chair.

The girl beside him arched an eyebrow. He had known Caelyn for as long as he could remember. His father had been the doctor to deliver her. She had been sickly as a child and had been born almost completely blind. Since she needed special medical care, Alastair’s father had remained her private physician since. As such, Alastair and Caelyn had grown up together.

“You give up too easily,” she said.

“I’m useless with magic, I might as well face it,” he snapped. “I don’t know why I bother.”

After all these years, Caelyn could sense when something was wrong. He could tell by her tight-lipped frown that she knew he was holding something back.

“You don’t sound like yourself. What happened?”

He gave a slight shrug. “Didn’t sleep well last night.”

Caelyn’s brows knitted together. Worry shone in her misty eyes. “The night terrors are getting worse, aren’t they?”

“I’m fine.” He loosened the clasp at his throat. It felt like he was suffocating in his uniform.

“Obviously not,” she said tersely. Silence lingered between them as more students successfully completed the spell. “What was it about?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered.

“You need to talk to _someone_ about it. At least tell your father. He might be able to—”

“I said I _don’t_ wanna talk about it.”

Caelyn fell silent. She rested her chin on her palm. Her intuition was sharper than most, helping her navigate the world easily despite being almost completely blind. There was the tiniest hint of blue to her pale eyes. Alastair often wondered how she was able to tell people’s expressions. When he had asked before, she described things as shadows or shapes. But Caelyn could see auras—energy tinted with different colors—which helped her distinguish between people. It still didn’t explain how she could tell when he smiled or rolled his eyes.

Some of the other students started practicing on other people’s apples. The little red fruits were zipping across the room, over students’ heads.

“ _Adeat_ ,” she whispered. With a gentle flick of her wand, Caelyn lifted Alastair’s apple from the table. It hovered effortlessly toward her and dropped into her palm. Alastair rolled his eyes, folding his arms over his chest.

A gentle chime sounded and the students slowly gathered their books.

“Remember to bring chalk and a vial of gem dust for your ritual casting lesson tomorrow,” the professor called over the roar of conversation.

“Alastair,” Caelyn said tentatively as they exited the classroom. “If your sleep has been affected this badly, perhaps you shouldn’t participate in your tactical lessons today.”

“Why would I skip my swords class? It’s the only break I get from all this boring stuff. It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

“I know, but if you haven’t been getting enough sleep then your stamina won’t—”

“Will you quit worrying so much?” he snapped. “You sound like my old man.” Again, silence settled over them as they navigated the expansive hallways. Alastair cleared his throat. “You don’t have class now?”

She shook her head. “I was thinking about going down to the greenhouse to check on the seedlings I planted. But I changed my mind.”

“I can’t believe you _like_ that boring stuff…botany.” He glanced at her. “Why the sudden change of plans?”

“I want to make sure you’re all right, what with your lack of sleep and all.”

He rolled his eyes. Alastair turned the corner and opened a weather-beaten wooden door. It led to the old garrison, which had been renovated in the last few hundred years to accommodate young aristocratic boys learning swordsmanship and tactical maneuvers. The clang of metal rang in the dirt courtyard. Caelyn slipped in behind him before the door could slam shut.

“You don’t have to wait here for me.” Alastair dropped his books on a table in the corner. “It’s gonna get pretty loud.”

“I know,” she said, settling into one of the spectator benches. “Don’t worry about me. You won’t even know I’m here.”

He shook his head as he made his way to the changing room. When a hand clapped his shoulder, Alastair jumped. Standing behind him was Kylar.

“Your girlfriend come to watch you spar?” A grin spread across his freckled cheeks. Kylar nudged Alastair in the ribs.

“You should try coming up with some new jokes,” he said. “That one’s getting a little old.”

“Oh, come on.” Kylar rolled his eyes. “You honestly think you guys are still _just_ friends? You’re practically inseparable.”

“Shut up!” He shoved Kylar away. “We’ve known each other basically forever. We’re. Just. Friends.”

Alastair tugged off his crisply pressed uniform and pulled on his sparring tunic. Unlike the clean shirt and jacket they wore during class, their sparring attire was composed of simple, cotton clothes. He always looked forward to sparring with his classmates—the only class in which he took center stage. In the sparring rotation today, he and Kylar were opponents. They both latched on their leather chest plates and pads.

“So…if you guys aren’t together, you wouldn’t mind if I ask her out, right?” Kylar said, adjusting one of his leather bracers.

Kylar had joked about dating Caelyn before, but for some reason the thought always made Alastair bristle. “ _You_? And _Caelyn_?” he scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” Kylar opened one of the cabinets and drew his sword. During practice they had the choice between lighter one-handed swords, or the more common two-handed longsword. Both he and Alastair tended to gravitate to the heavier two-handed blades. “I know you guys are ‘just friends’ and all, but you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed how beautiful she is.”

“No way.” He shook his head. Just thinking of Kylar trying to smooth talk Caelyn made his temper flare. “She’s not the kind you usually go for.”

“What are you talking about? She’s caring, she’s beautiful—what about her _wouldn’t_ I like?” Kylar started for the courtyard, sword in hand. Alastair snatched his own blade from the cabinet and stalked after him.

“Yeah, I know, but, I mean—I meant you’re not really her type, so….”

Kylar turned on his heel, sword hilt held in both hands. “How about a bet, Al? If I win, I get to make a move on Caelyn. But if _you_ win, I’ll give it up.”

“You’ve never beaten me before, what makes you think you’ll win this time?”

“Maybe I’m just feeling lucky today,” Kylar said. He settled into a wide, two-handed stance. “Are we agreed?”

Shifting his feet, Alastair settled into his own stance. He bent his back knee, keeping his front leg straight, in a kind of reverse lunge. None of his classmates had been able to best him in a fair duel. But out of all of them, Kylar had come the closest. Their instructor stood at the edge of the courtyard.

Alastair glanced at Caelyn. She sat watching from the spectator seats behind the safety fence. Raising his sword, he smirked. “Fine.”

Their instructor lifted his arm straight in the air. “Begin!”

Alastair sprang forward. Kylar stumbled back but managed to parry the blow. The clang of metal reverberated through the courtyard. Alastair’s quick footwork allowed him to easily advance on his opponent. Blow after blow, Kylar managed to block or evade him. Alastair clenched his teeth and lunged. The sword nicked Kylar’s arm.

Kylar’s blade flashed through a slim opening. Alastair jerked back, feeling a sharp sting across his cheek. He backed away, creating space between them. Taking a deep breath, he tried to bring his mind back to focus. Kylar’s sudden movement jolted him back from his calm. His strikes seemed faster than normal. Though Alastair managed to parry many of them, he couldn’t gain the upper hand. But Kylar’s footwork had always been a little slower than his. Alastair ducked beneath his friend’s sword and rammed his elbow into Kylar’s stomach. He swept his leg under Kylar’s feet as he stumbled back. Kylar landed hard on his back. Alastair swung his sword, stopping his blade mere inches from his friend’s neck. But in his haste, Kylar had managed to raise his own blade, the tip barely touching Alastair’s throat.

Their instructor lifted his arm quickly. “That’s match!” he shouted. “It’s a draw!”

A few of the other boys erupted in cheers. Alastair was one of the best in their class. His matches were always lively. But as they applauded, another of his classmates stepped forward. He had curly blond hair and green eyes. Dalton Shaw, the only child and heir to his noble house, had always been jealous of Alastair’s talent with the sword. He had never been able to best him in a fair fight and his pride had never let him accept his losses.

“A draw?” he scoffed. “You’re slipping.”

“What do you want, Shaw?” Alastair grumbled.

“A rematch.”

“Dalton, come on,” one of his friends whispered. “Don’t—”

“Shut up!” he snapped, rounding on the boy.

Alastair rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you tired of losing?”

“Enough!” Dalton drew his rapier and pointed it at Alastair. “How about it, Seiver? Or are you afraid your match with Kylar has exhausted you?”

“You wish!”

“How about we have a full match—enchantments and supplementary magic allowed,” Dalton sneered. “Unless you’re afraid I would actually win.”

Alastair clenched his jaw. Ever since Alastair had first bested him, Dalton had protested the match, saying that he would have won had he been allowed to use magic. But duels and sparring matches were usually conducted without the aid of magical enhancement, to better prepare their bodies for combat. Many of his classmates aimed to become knights or join the Crown’s Guard, and it was necessary that they were used to combat without magic, to build their muscles and stamina. Shaw was convinced he would triumph if magic were allowed in their duels, and Alastair was tired of his high-and-mighty attitude.

“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Use magic if you want. I’ll beat your ass all the same.”

“Al, what are you doing?” Kylar stepped up. “You’re giving him a huge advantage—”

“And when I win, maybe it’ll finally shut him up!” He glowered at Shaw. “I don’t need magic to kick your ass.”

“Gentlemen, take your positions,” their instructor said. The two strode to opposite ends of the sparring circle, the other boys backing away to a safe distance. Alastair settled into his stance. Shaw stood tall, one foot positioned behind him for stability. Dalton favored the lighter, one-handed swords, giving him an advantage with speed. Once again, their instructor raised his arm. “Begin!”

Shaw was faster than Alastair expected. He must have muttered a spell to increase his agility just before the instructor began the match. His rapier glowed faintly—the remnants of a hardening spell. Alastair managed to parry the blow, the clang of metal ringing in his ears. Shaw nimbly stepped back a few paces before lunging forward again. It was harder to block his quick thrusts, unlike the wider swings of a two-handed sword. A few slipped through his defenses, nicking his skin. A sharp sting cut into Alastair’s cheek, crossed over the first wound from Kylar’s duel. Dalton was light on his feet, his thin blade flashing quickly with each strike.

Alastair took a few steps back. Eager to keep him on the defense, Shaw chased after him. Alastair swung with all his strength, the force of his strike knocking his opponent’s rapier from his hand. He lunged forward, his blade inches from Shaw’s throat.

“That’s match!” their instructor said. “Alastair is the victor.”

Alastair smirked, wiping the blood from his cheek. “That must be a record. You didn’t even last five minutes.”

Dalton glowered at him, keeping his head held high. “Don’t get cocky, Seiver. Just because your swordplay is good doesn’t mean you belong here. You were only admitted because your father knows people of influence.”

He snatched Dalton by the collar. Shaw drew his wand, the wooden tip touching the bottom of Alastair’s chin. The sword master stepped forward and pushed them apart.

“That’s enough!” he said firmly. “You had your match. Any more out of either of you and you will both receive demerits.”

“But, sir!” Alastair protested.

“I will not have your petty squabbles here. You both are dismissed.” He turned them both toward the changing rooms. “Now go change out of your gear.”

Their classmates muttered amongst themselves as the two were forced out of the sparring yard. It was a disgrace to be dismissed from class early, especially for a model student like Shaw. Dalton glowered at Alastair as they trudged inside. Unbuckling his leather pads and guards, Alastair threw them angrily on the ground. He tossed his tunic haphazardly into the wooden cabinet and snatched his uniform from inside. Slamming the door shut, Alastair grumbled as he changed. He hastily cleaned his sword and placed it back on the stand where all the blades were kept. It was frustrating that the only class he enjoyed had been cut short, all thanks to Dalton.

He opened the old weather-beaten door. As he stepped out of the garrison, a sudden chill surged through him. His muscles froze. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t move. His body felt heavy.

“Not so tough without your sword, are you?” There was an iciness in Shaw’s voice.

Dalton stepped around the corner, still wearing his gear, his rapier in hand. His wand was pointed at Alastair. He turned his hand, as if he were twisting something with his wand.

“ _Ango_ ,” Shaw muttered.

Alastair’s invisible restraints suddenly constricted. It was like he was being strangled. Alastair inhaled sharply, trying to catch his breath. Dalton was at the top of his class thanks to his exceptionally strong spells. It wasn’t the first time Alastair had been on the receiving end of his hexes. The pain eased up slightly as Dalton stalked closer.

“It’s time you learn your place, Seiver.”

“What’s the matter?” Alastair said, provoking him. “You can’t take me on equal terms, so you’re attacking when my guard is down? You’re not even using your sword.”

“I don’t need it to beat a magicless plebian like you.” He smirked. “But it helps.”

Shaw’s blade flashed, as quick as it had been during their match. It seemed the enhancement magic was still in effect. A sharp pain cut into Alastair’s outer thigh. He bit his lip, holding back a cry. He refused to give Shaw the satisfaction. The invisible restraints constricted again. It felt like it was squeezing the life out of him—his bones were ready to pop. Another lunge. Dalton’s rapier sliced through his tunic, piercing his side. A smirk spread across his attacker’s face. Dalton kicked him hard in the stomach and Alastair coughed, the wind knocked from his lungs.

“What’s wrong?” Shaw mocked him, a wicked grin on his face. “Can’t fight back, Seiver?”

Alastair glared at him, refusing to answer.

Snatching a fistful of his hair, Dalton yanked Alastair’s head back. The tip of his rapier pricked Alastair’s uninjured cheek. “Why don’t I carve a mark on your face where everyone can see? That way everyone can know what you are—a magicless nobody.”

A sting sliced through his cheek. He could feel the blood rolling down. Alastair refused to make any noise, despite the pain.

“Alastair!” Caelyn shouted.

Her voice startled them both. Alastair looked up to see Caelyn rushing toward them. She quickly drew her wand and pointed it at Shaw. Before Dalton could open his mouth, she attacked.

“ _Repellere_!” she screamed.

A burst of energy shot from her wand and knocked Shaw to the ground. With his focus broken, the spell binding Alastair weakened. Caelyn struck again. She shouted spell after spell, forcing Dalton back. But the more magic she used, the slower her movements became. She stood over Dalton, her hand trembling.

“You are a cowardly, underhanded, loathsome man!” she shouted.

She lifted her wand to strike again, but the words caught in her throat. She clutched her blouse, tugging at the fabric as if it were too tight. Her breathing became ragged, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. Shaw’s eyes widened, stunned by her sudden change. But only when her legs gave out and she collapsed did he realize the gravity of the situation. He released the spell binding Alastair. Caelyn was inhaling sharply. It sounded like she was struggling to breathe. Alastair winced as he knelt beside her.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “Breathe slowly, Caelyn. It’s okay.”

Alastair carefully lifted her up. He cast Dalton a scathing look as he hurried past him, toward the infirmary wing. He quickly made his way up the stairs, ignoring the pain from the wounds Shaw had inflicted. He had become all too familiar with the infirmary and didn’t bother knocking before entering. Inside were several separate examination rooms. Seated at the desk was a middle-aged man with dark brown hair—Alastair’s father. He wore a white coat, and a pair of glasses were on the edge of his nose. He was reading through a stack of papers when they entered. Standing beside him was Nurse Isha—a Johte’ir woman with curly black hair, rounded feline ears peeking from the coils. She wore a conservative white uniform, a simple bonnet keeping her curls contained.

“What happened?” Isha hurried toward them.

“She’s having an attack.”

Isha guided them to one of the examination rooms, Dr. Seiver following close behind. Alastair laid Caelyn down on the bed. Dr. Seiver glanced at Alastair, his eyes flicking from the boy’s wounds to Caelyn. She was still clutching her wand. The doctor’s lips tightened until his mouth was nothing more than a thin line.

“She overused her magic and—”

“Get out,” his father demanded. “Both of you.”

Isha escorted Alastair from the room, closing the door behind them. There was no use arguing with the doctor, and Alastair knew better than to protest.

“Let me take a look at those wounds,” Isha said, gesturing to another of the empty rooms.

Grumbling, he complied, allowing her to help him inside. Alastair eased himself into a chair as Isha helped him out of his bloody uniform.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I was a little distracted and Shaw thought it was a good idea to attack me when my back was turned.”

“And Caelyn?”

He glanced away. “She defended me and…strained herself.”

Due to her poor health, Caelyn refrained from using her magic excessively. But in the heat of her anger, she must have forgotten her restraint. Unlike Alastair, she was gifted with magic and was exceptionally good, but her body could not handle the strain it caused. As a result, she constantly suffered from attacks like this. A sudden stinging on his cheek jolted him back. He winced as Isha pressed a cloth soaked in alcohol against his cheek. The white fabric came away scarlet.

“It’s unlike you to be injured to this extent,” she said, dabbing at the wound.

“I was careless,” he muttered.

Though Isha’s touch was gentle, each time she dabbed at his wounds, it sent searing pain through him.

“It isn’t like you,” she said. He could feel her eyes on him as she spoke, but he refused to meet her gaze. “I have known you since you were small. You cannot expect me to believe such a feeble excuse. Tell me what is bothering you.”

“It’s nothing! I just…I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

“Why is that?”

“I’ve been having pretty bad night terrors,” he admitted.

He felt Isha’s grip tense. “How long has this been happening?”

“Two months.”

Isha hesitated. “I know it is not what you would like to hear, but it would be best if you spoke with your father about this.”

“He’s gonna overreact—”

“He is your father, Alastair. Despite how he may seem, he truly does care about you. There may be something he can do to help.”

He remained silent, his eyes downcast as she finished dressing his injuries. As she applied a cooling salve to his wounds, she muttered something in a language he did not understand. Unlike most healers, Isha used a different form of magic to aid the healing process. Isha cast spells without the aid of a wand. That, coupled with her knowledge of natural Johte’ir remedies, meant the healing properties were amplified. He could feel the sting slowly vanish as she repeated the soothing words—all in Old Eldean, one of the oldest Johte’ir languages. Once each of his injuries had been cleaned and wrapped, he tugged on his now ruined uniform.

“You may head back now, Alastair,” she said gently. “But when your father is finished, it would be best if you came back to speak with him.”

“I’ll just wait here,” he said.

Isha sighed, but did not stop him. He sat in the waiting room, hoping his father would finish quickly. Typically, Caelyn’s treatment lasted several hours. When she was young, she had been so sick that she could hardly get out of bed. Because his father was the family’s physician, Alastair had seen her at her worst. And though her condition had been improving as she aged, he still felt a strong sense of protectiveness toward her.

Silence settled over him like a thick fog. Isha sat at the desk, filling out patient reports and filing them away in the cabinet behind her. She glanced up at him occasionally but said nothing. All was quiet except for the scratch of Isha’s quill on paper. Finally, his father emerged, closing the door behind him. Alastair stood.

“How is she?”

“She’s sleeping now.” Dr. Seiver folded his glasses and slid them into his coat pocket. “Her symptoms are worsening, so I administered some new medications which should help with her pain.”

Isha rose from her chair and handed Dr. Seiver a folder.

“ _Help_ with her pain? You mean you still can’t do anything to fix it?”

“Look.” His father’s eyes locked on Alastair’s amber ones. “There are things in this world that even I can’t explain. There are no records to help us understand the nature of her illness. At this point, easing her pain is the best thing I can do for her. It’s fortunate she has managed as well as she has.” He opened the file, leafing through the pages.

“So…what? Just treat her pain and that’s it?”

“Enough!” His father snapped the folder shut. He pursed his lips. It was the same face he made whenever he was frustrated. “I’ve done what I can, but there are limits to what I can do.” He turned away from his son. “It’s time you accept that.”

Dr. Seiver nodded to Isha. She followed him down the hall, casting Alastair an encouraging glance before they left the infirmary. Pacing back and forth in the lobby, Alastair aggressively ran his hands through his hair. Whether or not his father was right, it felt as if the old man wasn’t even trying. Eventually, he marched down the hall and opened the door to Caelyn’s room. Her pale features and platinum hair seemed to glow in the lamplight. He slipped inside and quietly closed the door. Dragging a chair over to the bed, he sat by her bedside. He leaned forward, arms resting on his knees as he watched her sleep.

He could remember when she was born. He was only three at the time. His father had been the doctor attending to her mother that evening. Alastair remembered how small and fragile she had been. When she was born, they hadn’t expected her to live. She wasn’t even breathing when she was delivered. But somehow his father had coaxed her into fighting for her life. The tiny baby had miraculously survived, and as she grew, Alastair was there. She was like the little sister he never had. And after watching that frail, tiny baby fight so hard to live, he’d vowed to protect her.

A sad smile crept across his lips as he remembered how it had been. Leaning back in the chair, he folded his arms. Alastair watched over her as she slept until his own eyes grew heavy. And slowly he slipped into unconsciousness.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is entirely of my own design and is a sneak peak of my upcoming fantasy novel "Inferno." I will be uploading only a few chapters as a teaser, so I hope you enjoy and hopefully you will continue to support me when the book is finally released!
> 
> The cover art was done by Julien Bauer. You can check out his beautiful art on his artstation page at https://www.artstation.com/julianb


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